


Silver

by CozyCryptidCorner



Category: Japanese Mythology, Original Work, exophilia - Fandom
Genre: Exophilia, F/M, Human/Monster Romance, slight nsfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:28:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23160964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CozyCryptidCorner/pseuds/CozyCryptidCorner
Summary: You're a photographer trying to find their next big break, something to blow your last accomplishment out of the water. There's also a fox that seems keen on stealing your stuff whenever it's within his biting range.
Relationships: Kitsune/Reader, Monster/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 389





	Silver

You place your head in your hands, head buzzing as a headache threatens to spill out from the back of your skull. Still, you remain hunched over your table, legs taking a moment to stretch straight under the wood as you try to _think,_ because surely there must be something out there for you. An answer to a question. Swallowing a sip of a caffeinated monstrosity that you should _not_ be drinking this late in the day, you look over the papers, pamphlets, and brochures you’ve laid out, mindlessly tapping a pencil on the edge of a sparsely written-in notebook.

If you _hadn’t_ seen such a resounding success so early in your photography career, maybe you wouldn’t feel so fucking pressured to keep up your high. Still, with a prestigious award under your belt and a mainstream science magazine breathing down your neck, you feel like you can’t even rest. With a soft sigh, you press your index fingers against your temples, gently massaging the pressure points, your eyes slowly rebelling against the ridiculously small text as you desperately try to go through everything again.

A knock sounds at your door.

It’s Nakamura-san, your landlady, an elderly, kind woman who has been letting you live in her upper apartment for a relatively modest price. Her lips are pursed as she looks over the mess on the table, and you dully register that you _could_ maybe tidy up in a sort of break from the readings, so perhaps you will once she leaves.

“You’re going to work yourself to death,” she says, gesturing in the direction of the table.

You fold your hands a bit sheepishly and try to apologize. “Did I miss rent? Oh my god, I’m so sorry, let me get my checkbook-”

“No, no,” she waves her hand, “my son and his girlfriend are both visiting, and they were just telling me about a nearby fox village.”

“Fox village?” You ask, resisting the urge to yawn in her face because you’re _that_ tired. Wait… what time was it? A quick glance at your watch informs you that it’s not just late, anymore, it’s _early._ Somehow, both dusk _and_ dawn have entirely escaped your focus. “Is it like some sort of theme park?”

“Well,” she fumbles for the words, “it’s more of a zoo. A fox zoo? Yes, a fox zoo.”

Okay, she’s got you, that _does_ sound kind of appealing. Slowly, hesitantly, you nod, trying to warm yourself up with the idea of socializing, already internally deciding which lenses you’re going to pack. “That… that might help me out.”

“You said something about animal activism?” She prods, handing you a pamphlet. It’s bright and colorful, with large, bubbly letters, and cheerful, happy cartoon foxes around the border. “This might be something to be interested in.”

“Thank you,” you let out a little breath, a tiny bit of hope bubbling in your chest, “so, so much. I’ll head over in the morning.”

“Child,” she says, a slight bit of exasperation in her voice, gesturing towards your tightly drawn curtains, “it’s morning now. Please tell me that you haven’t been up all night.”

“Um,” you notice a soft glow of sunlight coming from the lower edges of the fabric, “I… can’t say that, no.”

She lets out an exasperated sigh, “then have some rest before you leave. You’re going to collapse if you don’t take care of yourself.

“Alright,” you promise, secretly not planning on taking that advice at all. “I will, thank you so much for the pamphlet.”

Your landlady lets out an unsatisfied _humph,_ probably recognizing your lack of commitment to the promise, but doesn’t press you further. As soon as she’s gone, you’re already going through your equipment, picking out the proper lenses that you might want to use. You’re no stranger to having to return multiple times to a single place, either, that’s how you caught your first break. Hours and hours of dedication, staring at possible subjects until your eyes bleed, having to sit until your limbs go numb, in water, in a bug-infested forest, wherever the art demands.

While you eat a prepackaged pastry, you get out your smaller equipment backpack and begin to fill it with what you think you’ll need. All relatively modest things, mostly for testing, you’re not going to bring any of the specialty lenses until the need arises. Before you leave, you do a quick check to make sure you have everything you need. Water bottle? Yes. Wallet? Yes. Camera? Yes.

With absolve, you head out, down the stairs hugging your landlady’s building, and down the modest street of the town you’ve taken temporary residence in. There’s a handy little map on the back of the pamphlet, a purple outline for anyone approaching the place via public transportation, so all it takes is a moment of study before you have the gist of what train you want to get on. The whole route takes you about an hour, some of the time spent waiting for a connecting bus to arrive, but you’re _finally_ here.

You’re already flicking through the manual settings of your camera as you pay the entrance fee, staring absentmindedly over the attendant’s shoulder and into the actual village, brow furrowing. It’s not… an impressively large space or anything, but you suppose that it’s big enough for a single animal type. As you allow yourself to wander, looking over the smaller cages, you raise your camera and take a short burst of photos. It really doesn’t look like there’s much room for him and his little buddy, so you take a quick picture, giving it a look over once it loads onto the screen.

Not bad. There’s some potential, that’s for sure.

A bright orange one slinks by the sidewalk, trotting like he owns the goddamn place. With little more thought, you squat down, letting the shutter flash as you try to capture the hubris the little diva is making, though it’s quick to bolt away at your sudden movement. Steadily, you make your way through the fox village, eyeing the little huts out on the edge with interest. Foxes lazily lay about, some raising their muzzles to watch you as you meander passed, taking some test photos just to see what else you’re working with.

Two foxes to your side get into a tussle, one white, one red, rolling around and yipping at each other. You get on one knee and manage to capture the moment in all its dramatic glory, both maws open, teeth glistening in the sun, the white one standing on its hind legs as it lets out a sharp, angry yelp, battering the red one with its paw. There are a hiss and a growl, but it seems like the argument is over… for now.

You tuck a stray tuft of hair behind your ear, standing back up, going through the photos you’ve managed to shoot. Not a bad start, for sure, you might even be able to sell these to a nature magazine with a touch of editing to make the whole composition seem more Hamlet-esque, but it’s definitely not what you’re looking for. Slowly, you begin to meander around the trail, wandering over the mountainside; most of the foxes only interested in you until they notice you have no treats to give them. God, you’re tired. And becoming a little paranoid, too, because you’re pretty sure that one of the darker coated foxes is following you around. And maybe it is, it might not be wholly convinced that you don’t have any food yet.

You turn around, squat down, and snap another photo, flicking through the camera’s settings as you feel a gentle tug on your backpack. Glancing back, you see the darker colored fox try to tease the shiny water bottle out from your side pocket, though it can’t seem to figure the finesse of the netting against its paws.

“Knock it off,” you say, shaking your backpack in the hopes it might get the thing to scurry off, but no such luck. No, the fox seemed _more_ determined to yank your water bottle free, watching you with a pair of calculated, icy blue eyes. So you stand up. The fox dangles in the air for a moment before numbly falling back to the ground, letting out a frustrated growl in your direction. “Sorry, bud, I need to stay hydrated.”

The fox doesn’t seem to catch the hint. It paces in front of you, then almost dances to the side, staring at your backpack with a strange kind of obsessive determination. When you have to bend over to shoot a smaller, silky furred critter standing on a rock like he runs this place, the darker furred one tries to go for your water bottle again, pressing its paws up against the lower part of your thigh as it stands on its hind legs. You shake it off, though that doesn’t seem to deter it any more than the first thwarting did.

You spend a few more hours at the sanctuary, having to carefully stay one step ahead of that damn little would-be thief, but humans _are_ at the top of the food chain for a reason. When you go back to your apartment with a small box of takeout, you unpack your equipment, hooking your memory card into the computer. Only remembering to take a bite of food every so often, you go through your pictures, slowly filtering through the ones that _might_ be something good with the stuff you’ll just use for photoshop fodder if you decide to do some image splicing.

There has to be something about the place you can use. The foxes are just _there,_ entirely satisfied with people coming up to take their pictures, plus that one little dark guy seemed _very_ insistent on stealing your stuff. They have no fear of humans; in fact, you would say their dependence on your kind probably keeps them from being released back into the wild… especially with how a good chunk of the population is born within the walls. You chew on the back of your pencil, deep in thought, brow furrowed in concentration.

You let yourself catch some rest before heading back over, bright and early. The ticket seller is a bit surprised to see you again, but you shrug it off and don’t say anything. You’re not going to explain anything unless you _absolutely_ have to, so you get your camera out and begin focusing on the cages, the ones with the foxes locked inside. The information sign reads that many of the foxes here are injured/pregnant, so their separation from the rest is necessary for their recovery. You spend some time looking over the angles of the wooden frames, pressing your fingers against your mouth as you calculate the pattern of shadows… how best to capture this?

Something tugs at one of your backpack straps, and wouldn’t you fucking know it, it’s the dark pelted one back at it again. Letting out a frustrated breath, you stand, shaking it off. The fox has the _audacity_ to let out an angry gargle, sitting back on its hind legs, letting one of its front paws up as though asking _nicely_ this time.

“For god’s sake,” you say, exasperated, “can you _please_ let me work?”

The fox lets out another indignant yelp, stretching its body out in a sort of nonchalant _I have no idea what you’re talking about, ma’am_ gesture, turning it back to you. Jesus. You wouldn’t have pegged foxes for being drama queens, but here you are, here _it_ is. Could it be the shininess of your water bottle? Do holo designs just… attract foxes? You keep working, staying on your toes to keep your stuff safe from its little but sharp teeth. In fact, you managed to get a few pictures of it being a little bastard, which actually might get you some cash from some wildlife magazines.

When you return, just as an experiment, you take a different, more dully designed water bottle. You spend the morning laying against the dirt, trying to capture some majestic shots of a beautiful white-coated prince, or at least, you imagine it to be one, with the way it carries itself. When you get back to your feet, you see the dark-colored fox- _your fox,_ you’ve started thinking it as such, sitting all prim and proper only about a meter or so away, and you could almost swear that it’s glaring _daggers_ at you.

At first, you’ve forgotten about the switch, so you put your hands on your hips and arch your eyebrows. “Is something the matter, buddy?”

It cocks its head, then stretches, trotting away as though so over your impertinence it can’t even spend another moment in your presence. You roll your eyes, then look over the sign of _do’s and do not’s,_ deciding that maybe the pull of food will get you the perfect shot. After a few more hours of quiet, patient waiting, hiding out on top of some rocks with your camera pointed at a lounging group, you call it quits and head home. As you walk back to the entrance, your fox catches up, giving you one last side-eye before you tell it goodbye for the night.

You keep bringing the dully designed water bottle, and your fox seems to carefully ignore you with every visit. By carefully ignore, you mean it has to be in the same place as you at all times, but with its back turned, probably so you _understand_ that you are being snubbed to the _very fullest_ extent. The whole thing… it’s kind of funny, you’re going to admit, letting out a breath of laughter when studying through the day’s pictures.

God, what a little bastard.

You’ve already decided that the next couple of days are going to be your last in the fox sanctuary. If you don’t manage to get something to knock an editor’s socks off, then that’s that. Time to move on to somewhere else, because you’re too fucking nervous about placing all your eggs in a single basket, so to speak. If something doesn’t happen in the few weeks you’ve been focusing on this one place, you’re afraid that nothing _will._ Plus, you’re already getting some weird looks from the staff, you’re worried the next time you leave, it’ll be with the police.

There’s one small thing that you want to do before you leave, though you’re pretty sure it is forbidden. You don’t care. There’s an adorable little pet shop with a variety of chew toys and such, with specialty designs that go above and beyond what a basic pet supply store might carry. Since your little guy seems so obsessed with holo patterns, you manage to find yourself a small sparkly squeaky ball, one that shimmers when you twist it against the fluorescent lighting. You’re pretty confident your fox is going to lose its cool the moment you roll it out.

And you’re right. When you manage to find a secluded enough location, far away from any of the workers who might witness this little transgression, you plop your backpack down on the dirt ground, unzipping the front pocket and pulling the squeak toy out. Immediately, you feel its eyes fall on you, breaking its careful act of shunning the moment curiosity takes over. You give the ball a little squeeze, quiet enough so that the other foxes don’t come running to investigate and place it on the ground, slowly rolling it closer to where the little guy sits.

“Nice knowing you, lad,” you say, zipping your backpack up, “but it’s time for me to head out and move on.”

It stares at you with those icy blue eyes, seemingly understanding far more than you would think possible.

“And… I think I’m going to miss you, you absolute brat,” you boop your fox on the nose. “Thanks for making my life a bit more interesting.”

So once again, you find yourself quietly staring at your laptop screen, trying to figure out just _what_ you’re going to end up doing. Should you walk the streets of a local district claimed by a fashion faction? Too easy, you think, but it’s an available option that’s always there. You bite your lip down harder, going back to your notebook, reviewing all the topics you’ve previously crossed off. Have you thoroughly investigated all the proper avenues with them? Surely not, maybe there’s something you’re missing.

You fall asleep on your desk, hunched over the millions of stray papers you’ve let lay around the laptop. When you wake back up, you’re staring at a picture of your fox, giving the camera a sassy glare while pretending to be above its peers. You let out a little sigh, closing the screen, and once going over any other pamphlets, trying to ignore the uncomfortable pang in your stomach. Okay… you know what, maybe you’ll head over one last time, just to say a double goodbye. Even though you plan on only stopping there for perhaps an hour or two before heading off to a nearby shrine, you still carefully pack up your things, choosing against the holo water bottle, and head out.

There’s something… off about the sanctuary when you get there. The employees seem just a tad bit more frazzled than usual, and there’s a large, industrial van parked to the side of the visitor’s parking. You see three people wearing khakis and polos, older than the usual zookeeper, chatting with another group of repairmen. When you get to the ticket counter, you try asking the teller what the hell happened.

“Several foxes somehow chewed through the fence and ran.” She seems nonchalant about it. “They’re all chipped, so it will be only a matter of time before they’re all found by pest control and ferried back, you have nothing to worry about.”

As you wander through the trails, you quietly wait for your fox to trot up in greeting, but it doesn’t come. After letting yourself wait for about an hour, knowing very well that if your fox hasn’t come up to you within the first ten minutes, it’s so doubtful that it will now, you take a few more pictures and head for the shrine. Looks like your little brat was first at the breakout scene, and good riddance, probably. Even though you are anxious for most of the other foxes, especially with their dependency on other humans, you have a creeping feeling that _your_ fox is going to be just fine.

You leave for the shrine, taking some landscape shots for your own enjoyment, settling to the back of the bus for the next couple of stops, heading back in the direction of your apartment. The shrine itself is… beautiful, you’re not going to lie. It’s deep within a forest, you have to follow a small foot trail, the forest rising up over the area, mossy growth covering the bark and masking everything in an odd shade of green. Crickets chirp as you slowly make your way down the thin dirt pathway, the shade of the trees offering a much-needed reprieve from the day’s heat. The shrine itself is old, and for the most, abandoned, which is why you’re here with a camera. You wouldn’t be going about a crowded religious center, obnoxious shutter sounds distracting from other people’s spiritual journeys. The stone is worn from years of being open to the mercy of nature, smooth as though industrially polished, with moss and ivy taking hold of whatever their flexible roots can manage.

Even though you have a pretty good handle on the local dialect, the carvings upon the rotting wood are slightly off from what you’re used to, and you find yourself completely unable to figure out what cohesive sentence they mean. You’ll probably have to end up asking your landlady for more info when you get back, so you’re sure to take some clear, concise pictures for future reference.

You’re close enough to the apartment that you can walk, a little foot trail weaving back to the small town you live in. Not a lot of people must swing this way, but some must, for the strip of dirt to remain untouched by grass. Cicadas chirp in the trees as you continue walking, the first hints of summer beaming down from the sun, a thin layer of sweat developing on your neck. Still, you would call this a beautiful day, and the exercise is good, you’re almost tempted to do another lap around the block once you return.

As you enter your apartment, you almost don’t notice the difference from when you left it earlier until you set your backpack down on the floor. Because… it’s _clean._ Like someone went through the space and put everything away where it belongs, your few books are on the bookshelves, the trash that you senselessly scattered on your workplace in the bin, the dishes have been washed, and your modest little cot in the corner has been made. The cheap, small crockpot you’ve used all but once is on, and there’s a warm, savory scent filling the little studio, you feel your mouth salivating as your stomach growls.

The only person with another set of keys to the apartment is your landlady, so this must be her doing. And you wouldn’t put it past her, either, her aggressively kind methods are known by everyone in town, so she probably has taken it upon herself to give you some TLC. Or maybe she’s fed up with the dumpster fire you’ve made her property out to be.

Since the day’s heating up a bit more, you shut the window facing the sun, pulling the curtains tight, so you don’t have to deal with that light. Getting a bowl from the pile of clean dishes, you go ahead and help yourself to the food, sighing in relief at the effort she must have put into it. It’s… _so good,_ it’s been a while since you’ve been able to find the time to pull yourself from work and cook. You settle in front of your computer again, trying to savor the bites as you upload the day’s photos from your camera’s drive.

You quietly tuck those photos of the shrine to the side, since your landlady was kind enough to actually clean your apartment up, you don’t want to bother her with anything else for the day. The next morning, you head out to the shrine again, planning to go to some bar with a couple of fellow foreign acquaintances in the evening, mostly at the behest of your landlady. Even though you’re usually shut in when it comes to these kinds of things, you feel like you can’t really say no to her on this, especially since she’s taking care of you above and beyond a typical landlord.

The get together is _fun,_ you’re very chagrin to admit. Going out and hanging with people from all different walks of life over some surprisingly competitive karaoke is something that you’re going to be doing next week, and the week after that, everyone’s already making plans. You think you’re going to someone’s wedding in a couple of months? There were a lot of discussions, you ended up saying yes to many things. Your apartment is also nicely tidied when you return, you’re beginning to wonder if the landlady sent you out just to clean everything up. It’s nice of her, but now you’re busy wondering if you’re quickly becoming a burden.

You spend the next day out in the nearest big city, aimlessly wandering, camera in hand, quickly finding the fashion district due to all the wildly eccentric colors and styles. This time, when you come back from your little day trip, you catch a bushy dark figure darting out from your window and back into the woods when you come tromping up the sidewalk, which… That’s not good. Imagining the absolute worst, you bolt up the stairs, two at a time, almost knocking down the door in a panic, expecting the entire space of your apartment to be absolutely trashed.

And… it’s not. It’s actually cleaner than when you left it. You’re unsure of _how_ you feel about this, or if you’re completely losing your fucking mind. Maybe the little critter _was_ planning on destroying your things, only to get scared when you started walking up? The only signs of someone else in your place would be the two dishes you left in the sink, which are now washed clean and set to the side… _and_ what looks like the start of dinner. Chopped vegetables are still resting on the wood cutting board, a knife balanced on the counter, evidence that your landlady left in a hurry.

Maybe… you look out the large window right behind the sink, and you’ve got a clear view of the sidewalk you usually take coming back from the bus stop. Since the door and stairwell are on the other side of the building, Your landlady would have time to slip out, so long as she managed to spot you just as you rounded the corner of a little bookstore. You’ve meant to thank her, but you haven’t managed to cross paths with her since the karaoke suggestion… maybe you should take the long way around and ambush her in the act?

Next time you go out, you make sure to come to the apartment from the back, weaving through the faded trail in the forest, trying to keep as quiet as possible. You’ve already long memorized which stairs creak and where, so you carefully sneak up the steps, slowly dodging any suspect points of the wooden boards. Then, too quick to give anyone time to reach, you shove your key into the lock and turn, throwing the door open a bit more dramatically than you intended to be.

There is no landlady.

There is; however, a dark, bushy tail peeking out from under your table.

You take a step forward, looking down from the other side, making eye contact with the icy blue eyes of a silver fox. _Your_ silver fox.

“Ha, no,” you say, not willing to believe your eyes. “No way.”

Knowing the jig is up, the fox slinks out from under the wood, as though it was never its intention to hide. Oh, yes, it was just looking for something, no big deal, no reason for you to be shocked. Calmly, it begins to groom itself, nonchalantly sitting back and licking its front paw. There’s a long, awkward moment where you’re staring at it, the door still open, cicadas screeching in the background, mouth agape. What- what are you even supposed to do?

“I- I’m sorry,” you say, because you literally cannot think of anything else, “can I fucking help you?”

Your fox pauses the grooming itself, glancing up to give you a look that screams _I don’t know, can you?_

“I did not come here to get sassed in my own home,” you find yourself blurting out, looking over at the counter and finding evidence of cooking. “How the hell did you manage to track me down?

The fox seems unimpressed with your statement, though sullenly follows your gaze to the abandoned meal. Which… ha, no. Absolutely the fuck not.

“Did my landlady step out for a second? Wait, shit, does she _know you’re here?_ This is a pet-free apartment, I could get evicted!” You don’t know why you’re speaking out loud, it’s not like the fox is going to give you any answers. You suppose it’s probably just because it seems to understand everything you’ve said to it up to this point, so you elaborate. “Was she just here? The… other woman who came in and tidied up, I wanted to thank her for the food and the cleaning.”

You’ve never seen your fox look _so offended_ since the two of you crossed paths, but you can _feel_ the indignation radiating off of it. The fur on the nape of its neck bristles, if only slightly, and it stands, stretching leisurely, then trotting over to the counter. The look it gives you is something between an attempt at indifference and complete, utter impatience, as though you’re lacking some sort of piece to the puzzle.

The way… Well, the way your fox is acting… Like it’s a person, is concerning, because you’re reasonably certain you’re hallucinating at this point. You’re super overworked, and now you’re seeing things, maybe it’s your subconscious telling you to get the flying fuck to bed, and you know what? It’s probably high time you listen to yourself and take a goddamn nap.

So as calmly and put together as ever, you take off your shoes, then your socks. You shut the front door, lock up, then lower the windows down to just a couple of inches for a fresh breeze to filter through. You plug your phone onto the charger, then quickly replace the camera’s battery. And, serenely as you can manage, you throw yourself onto your bed, wrapping yourself up under the blankets, facing the wall. _When I wake up,_ you think, trying to ignore the little scratching sounds of small claws against the wood floor, _the fox will be gone. I will be alone in this apartment._

There’s a muted yip, near your ear.

You take a deep breath and pull the blanket over your head.

There’s a golden light filtering through the windows when you wake back up, a sign that you’ve slept the rest of the day away. God, there’s still so much for you to do, you should have at least set your alarm or something. You smack your lips, your mouth feeling like there’s a millennium’s worth of rot in the back of your throat, and smell something savory cooking. Rubbing your eyes with one hand, you twist your head, seeing a figure bent over the hot plate on the counter.

“Who are you?” You ask, in a voice that you _hope_ is authoritative, feeling around the floor for the baseball bat you sleep by for just this occasion.

“Yours,” he says, seemingly unbothered by your tenseness.

“I’m sorry?” You finally find it, fingers wrapping around the rubber-coated handle, and you kick off the blankets.

“I’m yours, you’ve said so yourself.” When he turns around, you’re met with a pair of bright, icy blue eyes, mischievous, haughty.

“Oh my god,” you can barely think because there’s _no way_ he’s implying what you _think_ he’s implying, then that would make him… uh, “you’re the _fox?”_

This has to be some elaborate prank. You don’t know _who_ would be able to remember this much about you to actually pull it off, but it has to be. This… this guy in a kimono is probably just fucking with you right now, recording your reaction to broadcast on some wacked out reality tv show.

“Not just a fox,” he says, clearly a bit miffed by your assumption, “I’m more than that. I wouldn’t be standing before you with two legs otherwise.”

There, just behind him, you see a familiar holo squeak toy, balanced on the counter by the sink. You’re close to shaking right now because this can’t possibly be real. You do not see a fox, you see some washed-up drama student trying to give you a hard time. You wonder briefly who the hell might put him up to this, but you’re a bit beyond beating him senseless with a baseball bat, so you put it down.

“If you’re really… _really_ what you say you are, then turn back into a fox.” You feel so stupid for even asking it, but a part of you wants the solid proof for _either_ possibility, whether it be the impossible or wholly plausible.

He offers up a shrug, then disappears into his clothing. No- not disappearing- _shrinking,_ if the little lump between the fabric is any clue, and out pops a very annoyed, very miffed fox. Suddenly, he’s a man again, trying to fit back into his clothing without taking everything off and putting it back on. “Are you satisfied?”

 _No,_ you’re not, because you don’t know where to go from here, you didn’t think he would actually manage to _prove_ it. So, just a brief recap; you’re here, with an escaped sanctuary fox, which can change into a person, and he’s been taking care of your apartment whenever you’ve been away. You swallow thickly, head feeling a bit light, and you sit back down on your mattress. Taking in a deep breath, you ask, “so… why, then, have you followed me? Why are you here?”

“I’m yours,” he says, like it’s obvious, tying his long, black hair back away from his face. “You gave me a gift.”

“I… guess I did.” You hug your arms to your chest.

“So we’re courting, then.” He’s almost growing impatient with you, even though you’re still just as lost as when you first entered. “Dinner’s almost ready, I suppose you’ll let me eat with you tonight?”

“I- sure,” you say, because you don’t know what _else_ to say, plus, he’s the one _making the food,_ so it’s the only polite thing you can think to do at the moment. “Do… um, do you have a name?”

“Tadao,” he says, almost miffed that you didn’t know.

“Tadao,” you echo, almost blankly. “Okay. Cool.”

Dinner is… quiet, but uneventful. You’re still stuck wondering if you’re currently dreaming, maybe close to waking up, but you try to eat without staring at him for too particularly long. _He_ doesn’t seem bothered at all by your silence, eating at a leisurely pace, catching your eyes every now and then, arching his eyebrows.

“Thank you for dinner,” you say, awkwardly, “and for all the other dinners before.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, gathering the dishes from the table.

“And… I suppose you’re the one who has also been cleaning, so thank you for that, too.”

He doesn’t respond to that but looks _very_ pleased with himself.

“I can do the dishes tonight, though,” you move to stand, but he’s quick to gesture you back down.

“You have your projects you need to do,” he says, good-naturedly. You suppose the compliments did something to his usual disposition. “I’ve been doing them on my own, you don’t need to help this time.”

You don’t know what to say to that, beyond sitting back down and getting your laptop out from your shelf. “I guess… if you insist.”

To say that the relationship between you and your fox is an odd one would only be scratching the surface. Because he _keeps coming back._ Every day, you go out and try to capture something great, and every day he returns, letting himself in, doing the upkeeping in the house like some sort of domestic… foxy househusband. It’s _unconventional,_ to say the least, but it’s not… the worst, you suppose. He’ll lounge about after dinner, while you’re working, sometimes watching you work some photoshop magic, sometimes just lay in your bed and reading one of your stray photography books.

You wouldn’t claim to have entirely accepted him, or the courting, but you aren’t sure what else to do. Yes, his human form is remarkably handsome. No, you’re not sure if you want to be married to a _kitsune,_ but his company is, unfortunately, quite lovely. He’s interested in what you’re doing with your photos, and actually _listens_ when you go onto long rants about the pros and cons of different camera lenses. And… well, he’s sweet, for all that tart exterior. He’s kind of like one of those candies that have those _horrid_ outer coatings, only to reveal something tooth-rotting sweet once you manage to lick the sourness away.

He leaves every night until you ask him not to. Your bed, after all, is big enough for the both of you, and you’re not going to have him sleep wherever the hell it is he goes when he already spends every waking moment in your apartment. His body is warm and pleasant to snuggle up against when the weather slowly turns from hot to cold, and having a second presence with you during the night helps calm any anxiety you might have over living alone.

Kissing came gradually, like the gentle trickle of a slowly breaking damn. You suppose that _you’re_ the one who started it, giving him a goodbye peck on the cheek before leaving for work. He, of course, reciprocates when you come home, as though testing the waters to make sure you’re alright with it. Everything is quick to escalate from there, from seemingly innocent kisses to something deeper, with your fingers nimbly outlining the hems of his clothing, though moving no more.

That’s not to say that everything stopped there, oh no. It escalates. You’ll breathlessly tell him where to touch you when he asks, and he’s quick to figure out how best to do so. His fingers are nimble and are always welcomed against the puckered wetness of your slit, and his mouth is soon to follow after a couple of sessions. You don’t know if he’s done this before, you haven’t ask, but you wouldn’t be surprised if he has, because he’s _good_ at it. Maybe all the previous instances have taught him a thing or two about where you’re most sensitive and _how_ to put you over the edge, but he’s… extremely capable, you’ll just put it at that.

He’s also not lacking in the _last_ category, either. You’re not sure if it’s, like, maybe some magic kitsune shapeshifting thing or if it’s completely natural, but the way he can slide in and fill you to the brim like the two of you were _made_ for each other is beyond satisfactory. The way he rocks his body against yours has brought you to tears more than once, sobbing gibberish as you try to hold on to your sanity for only a few more moments. And in the aftermath, he’s suddenly tender, soft, helping you properly clean off before going to sleep.

When you wake, you’re clinging to him like ivy on a picket fence. Even though he doesn’t verbally express this, you know that snuggling up to him is something he enjoys _immensely,_ you can tell by the way he murmurs sweet nothings while stroking your hair. And, not to lie, you also think that waking up this way is something you’d like to do, every morning, for the rest of your life.

And you just might.


End file.
